The younger children shouted in affirmation before anyone else and gulped at their drinks. Everyone else raised their cups and blessed Sir Thomas and his health before drinking.
After dinner, the children presented the pageant of Saint George killing the dragon. Saint George wielded his sword more steadily, having learned through his practices that a jab would not dislodge him from the ground like a swing. The dragon, however, having no way to see through the costume, and no means of controlling both ends in unison, ended up presenting its hindquarters to Saint George. Little John, in the confusion caused by stage fright, took his fatal stab anyway, and so the dragon was slayed by a might blow to his rear. This was met with hearty applause and calls for more wassail.
After the pageant, the family and servants went outside to stand over a roaring fire built in a clearing of the garden. Far away they could see lights in the spire windows of London churches, torches that would stay through the night as the world awaited the Saviour. The night above them was as black as an inkwell, dotted by brilliant, glimmering stars. This was how the shepherds had spent the last sad day of the age that had never known salvation, More reminded them. He kept staring at the lights of London, walking away from the fire, and Rose was afraid he would catch a chill. She took a blanket from a pile set out earlier for the evening and brought it to him. She offered it without a word, her head turned away, so that the household gossips would not be aroused.
He spoke so they would not hear. “A heretic named Barnes is burning tonight. It may be my last.” He looked with grief at the city.
Rose wondered in horror which flames lit church courtyards, and which were set around a stake.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” he said, a tear staining his cheek. “My time is upon me.” He smirked and brushed past her into the house, leaving her with the dread and fear.
The wassail and the marvelously disrespectful death of the dragon still had everyone around the fire in good spirits. The children, as Rose predicted, had drunk much more than they should have of the wassail, and she excused herself to help see them off to bed. She wished she had drunk none of the wassail, for the fear of his words had no restraints, growing and leaping in her mind, creating such dread that she prayed Christmas would not come.
As she carried the sleeping Cicely, the other servants warned her not to remove their clothes or shoes, but to let them sleep on top of their beds, which Rose did, before falling asleep herself in a similar fashion. Her dreams were blessedly dark.
His hands found her in this dark ocean, pulling her back through the night until she blinked in confusion, a candle only inches from her face.
Sir Thomas was in her chamber. Margaret was not in her bed.
“She’s asleep with the others. They stayed up through the night telling ghost stories,” he said. Rose nodded, trying to sit up.
“I have an early New Year’s gift for you,” he whispered. He held out a small parcel, and by its weight, she judged it held coins.
“There is a parchment in it. Do not open it or read it until my time has come. You must give it to the sheriff. It is for my salvation. And yours.”
“What do you mean?” she began to ask, but he grasped her around her shoulders, forcing her back onto the bed, his mouth on hers, the taste of rum making his kisses sour and slick. She tried to turn her head and cry out, but his weight was too much. She tore her fingernails down his back, down the scourged field he broke open every night, and though he jerked against her hands, he pressed down on her with more force. His hand was clawing at her bodice.
His violence broke open the sour secrets of her past. Awful flashes of guilt convulsed her. This was what she was when she came here—how could she have thought she would become something new? She closed her eyes to submit, letting her body go limp.
She sensed a presence, something she remembered from a night long ago, a night of blood and tears, and opened her eyes. Standing at the foot of the bed was a monstrous thing, a man with a wild mane of gold and burning cat’s-eyes, his muscles straining as he wielded a sword over his head. She screamed as a servant rang a bell somewhere far back in the house, alerting them that the barge had arrived to carry them to church.
More scrambled from her bed, running from the room.
Chapter Twenty-three
Christmas still hung about Greenwich palace; the scent of fires burning through the night in stone hearths, pomanders of cinnamon and oranges set about every room, roasted hen and dark baked breads, and the crisp clean winter air sweeping past outside, piercing the still chambers that had arrow-slit windows.
Anne clapped and a servant presented another gift. It was a fine gold cup, and Anne considered its weight and design before nodding her approval to the record keeper. A note of her thanks would be dispatched to the earl who had sent it.
Another servant stepped forward with a book, her name and seal etched in leather on it. Anne opened it and read the note it bore her.